by Milton Stern
“You know him?” Sam asked before taking another bite of his salad.
“Of course I know Sid,” he said as he poked his fork at his plate. “He may be an old guy, but don’t knock someone because of his age. He’s the best in the business, and believe me, if that alta cocker wants you as a client, you’ll be working in no time.”
“So, I should go see him?” Sam asked.
“Sam, how long have you been here? Five years? You’re parking cars and the man in the crowd here and the man in Pathmark there. How many agents have called you?” he asked as he put a bite of salad in his mouth.
“You read my resume?” Sam asked as he took a sip of Chianti.
“I had to before I handed it to Sid,” Michael said, and Sam choked on the wine, bringing the napkin to his lips. “I’m sorry, did I say something to upset you?”
“You gave my resume to an agent?” Sam asked with surprise and a little excitement as he wiped his mouth and caught his breath.
“Isn’t that why you left it in my glove compartment?” he asked as he took another bite of salad.
“Well, to tell the truth …” Sam started to say.
“You wanted me to fuck you,” Michael finished his sentence, taking another bite of his salad. He was enjoying the part of the suave older man making this kid nervous – a part he rarely, if ever, played. Maybe, he should have considered a career in acting.
Sam blushed at Michael’s comment, and Michael smiled at him, putting his fork down and resting his hands on the table. “Listen, Sam. I’m really a nice guy, and you’re a good looking guy and well-mannered from what I can see. I thought you were cute last night as I showed you how to drive my car, and I looked in the glove compartment right after I arrived home, knowing you would leave a headshot in there. Do you know how many headshots I’ve collected from valets over the last twenty years?”
“Probably hundreds,” Sam said a little embarrassed.
Michael looked into his deep brown eyes and said, “Including yours, three.”
Sam put down his fork and with surprise said, “Three?”
“Yeah, three,” he answered. “People in this town know my name, but very few know what I look like. It’s been to my advantage in that I get invited to some of the most exclusive parties, yet I can go shopping at Kroger’s without anyone bothering me. That’s why I like being a writer. Nobody notices me.”
“But you’re so hot! Don’t they figure you are an actor or some Hollywood big shot?” Sam asked.
“Thank you, but I never considered myself hot. But, no, headshots are expensive, and most wannabes don’t give them to someone unless they’re sure it will get their foot in the door,” Michael said as he resumed eating his salad.
Sam picked up his fork again and asked, “What happened with the other two who left them in your glove compartment?”
“I fucked them,” Michael said without hesitation or looking up from his plate. This time Sam didn’t choke. “But, if you’re wondering if I gave them to my agent, I didn’t.”
Sam stopped eating and looked at Michael. “Why did you make the exception with me?”
“Because, Sam, there’s something different about you. You see, making it in this business as an actor has little to do with talent. It’s all about presence, appeal and charm. I think you have a natural charm about you, and if I’m right, Sid will see that, too.” Sam blushed again as Michael continued, “And, you have a youthful quality, especially when you blush. I thought you were in your twenties until I read your resume. I couldn’t believe you were thirty.”
Sam finished his salad, put down his fork, and said, “I have to tell you something.”
“What, Sam?”
“I’m not thirty,” he said, setting off alarms in Michael’s head, who wondered if he was sitting there with a seventeen-year-old.
“How old are you?” Michael asked with a frown.
“I’m thirty-five,” Sam said. “I figured if I chopped off five years, it would increase my chances since I decided to try to be an actor late in life. I was a school teacher for seven years before I quit to move out here.” Michael sighed with relief as Sam continued. “You’re not upset that I lied about my age, are you?”
“Not at all,” Michael said. “I was afraid you were going to tell me you were seventeen.” He laughed, and so did Sam. “How old do you think I am?” Michael asked.
“Well, that’s not fair because I know you have been here for twenty years. But, last night I thought you were in your early thirties.”
“Good save,” Michael said as Sonia removed their salad plates and brought the manicottis.
“Promise me you’ll go see Sid,” Michael said as they dug into their dishes. “I don’t want to look like a fool.”
“I will, I will,” he said.
Michael really liked Sam, who like him, only drank a half a glass of wine. Michael told Sonia to take the rest of the bottle home with her, and after eating dinner with him, something told him Sam would make it big in this business if he got the right break. The rest of the evening was pleasant, and after dinner, Michael invited Sam back to his house.
They sat on the deck talking, and Sam asked, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No. I’m not boyfriend material. The guys I end up with are usually self-centered assholes who end up using me and discarding me when I’ve outlived my shelf life,” he explained.
“Wow, I thought I was the only one who ended up in relationships like that.”
Michael looked at him for a moment. They were very much alike, or at least he was like Michael ten years ago. He wanted to make a move, but he really liked Sam, so he didn’t want him just to be a trick. As Michael pondered what path to take, Sam got up from his chair came over to Michael, leaned down and kissed him. His full lips felt great against his, and as they made out on the deck, Michael wondered what Helen Epstein thought of all this.
They parted lips, and Sam said, “I have an early day, and I better get going before I rip all your clothes off and have my way with you.”
“What happened to that nervous, shy valet I met last night?” he asked.
Sam laughed as he gently tugged Michael’s nipple through his shirt. Michael walked him to the door, and they made out some more before Michael opened it. Sam hesitated and patted Michael’s chest, as if he were debating what to do next. He walked outside, turning before getting into his car and waved.
“Go see Sid,” Michael yelled after him as he backed out of the driveway.
“I will, I will,” he yelled back. “Call me before you leave for D.C.”
“I will, I will,” Michael said.
The next few weeks were hectic as Michael prepared to move to D.C. Sam and he never could quite get their schedules to mesh, and although they talked on the phone several times, they never managed to see each other again. Michael was not too disappointed, as he knew starting something before leaving would only make it more difficult. Here, he had met a really nice Jewish guy, and he was moving.
Timing is everything in Hollywood.
Chapter Four
Michael rented his house to one of his colleagues from Los Angeles Live, and he debated about whether to put his car in dry storage or take it with him. Since he didn’t want to take a chance driving his Corvair cross-country, he went with his gut and stored it. Sharon told him he wouldn’t need a car in Washington, and Michael figured if it turned out he did, he could rent one when necessary.
Michael arrived at Dulles International Airport around 2:00 pm on Friday, June 10, and took a cab to his temporary home in the Mount Pleasant neighborhood of Washington, D.C. The neighborhood looked like a nice area, and there were several people walking their dogs, which made him miss Aunt Clara even more. The apartment was actually the first floor of a townhouse located on Newton Street next to Bancroft Elementary School, and it was all brick with the ugliest blue doors and shutters Michael had ever seen. Eric Sagman said he would be home when Michael arrived to hand him the keys and all the necessary i
nformation. Eric had decided to sublet his apartment for a year, even though his assignment in Brazil could be as long as two years.
Michael exited the cab, pulled his bags from the trunk and knocked on the door to the apartment. When Eric answered the door, Michael’s jaw dropped. He blinked several times, and so did Eric. They were the mirror images of each other. It has been said that everyone has a twin, but this was too weird, even for Michael.
Eric also stood six-foot-four with closely cropped hair, but where Michael’s hair was still all black with a few gray strands, Eric’s hair was all gray. Eric obviously worked out, but was carrying about twenty more pounds than Michael, some of it around the middle, which Michael also battled constantly, often yo-yoing up and down by twenty or so pounds a year, himself. Eric’s eyes were also green, but they were obscured by Clark Kent style, black framed bifocals. Since Michael didn’t wear glasses, he could be Superman to Eric’s Clark Kent. Eric was wearing jeans and a green T-shirt, a matching green military style belt and Chuck Taylors in the same shade of green. He was just a little too color coordinated for Michael’s taste.
After the initial shock, Eric opened the screen door and said, “You must be Michael. Come in, come in.”
Eric’s suitcases were neatly arranged by the door, and once inside, Michael was standing in the kitchen/dining room, and he put his suitcases down. The cabinets were white and built to the ceiling, and there was a green Formica table with matching green chairs. Everything in the kitchen – the pictures, the chachkis, the canisters and the like – had green accents. There were plants on a green baker’s rack by the front window and taped to it were instructions on when and how to water them. Eric led Michael into the living room, and the first thing he noticed was that everything was arranged in threes. Michael glanced back to the kitchen and noticed all the pictures and other items were arranged in threes there as well. The living room had a futon, two matching chairs and a small bistro table by the back patio. Whereas everything in the kitchen was green, everything in the living room was either red or tan with chachkis and pictures to match. It is true what Jews say, Art is what matches your couch, or in this case, your futon, Michael thought.
Michael then completed the tour with the bedroom, again arranged in threes, but with everything accented in green and burgundy. The apartment was absolutely spotless, just as Michael’s house was.
“How often does the maid come?” Michael asked.
“Oh, I don’t use a maid. I don’t like cleaning up after someone. It’s amazing I’m subletting as I usually don’t want anyone touching my stuff. I’m a little obsessive,” Eric said.
Eric was very energetic, almost hyper, but extremely friendly. Oddly, neither mentioned the fact that they looked so much alike.
“Can I ask you another question?” Michael asked.
“Sure,” Eric answered, “I have no secrets.”
“Why is everything arranged in threes?” Michael asked gesturing around the apartment.
Eric looked around and laughed. “Well, if you must know, I have mild Asperger’s syndrome or as some call it high functioning autism. I’ve learned to control it over the years, but some of my quirks come out screaming.” Eric then laughed.
“I guess that makes life interesting,” Michael said, having read up on Asperger’s syndrome when a friend’s child was diagnosed with it.
Eric was constantly on the move and handed Michael a list. “Yeah, I can’t sit still. My grandmother used to say I was busier than a blue-assed fly, whatever the hell that means,” Eric added.
Michael glanced at the piece of paper, which contained a list of emergency numbers, instructions on how everything worked in the apartment, including how if you baked a cake, set the thermostat twenty-five degrees higher than the recipe instructed and allow seven extra minutes of baking time. Every minute detail of living in this one-bedroom apartment was covered. Michael reached into his wallet and pulled out a check, which covered an entire year’s rent, utilities and a security deposit. Eric looked at it, immediately endorsed it and pulled out a deposit slip filling it out as well. Michael was amazed at how organized Eric was.
“So, Brazil, I guess you’re looking forward to that,” Michael said.
“Actually, it’s not as glamorous as you think. I’m going down there on a government contract to study and write about the impact of aid to poor villages in the country. I may never see Rio except when I land at the airport,” Eric said. “And do you want to hear the weirdest part?”
“What?” Michael asked, intrigued by this twin of his with every move he made.
“I’ve been taking Portuguese lessons for six months now, and I still can’t speak one word of it! Hilarious huh? Sending an Aspy – that is what they call us Asperger’s people – to a foreign country with no working knowledge of the language,” Eric answered and laughed again.
Michael looked over at his suitcases and noticed he had only three bags – of course, three. “Is that all the luggage you’re taking for a year?” Michael asked.
“Look who’s talking. You showed up with three bags yourself,” Eric said pointing to Michael’s bags.
“You’re right, but I’m having the rest shipped,” Michael answered, noticing that he had a “three-thing” going on, too.
“I shipped stuff also and guess how many boxes?” Eric said with a grin.
“Three,” Michael answered.
“Wrong! Two!” Eric said. “Do you know for how long I was rocking and flapping my arms before I could allow myself only to send two boxes?” Eric then laughed again. That made Michael nervous – rocking and flapping his arms. Eric sensed his alarm. “Oh, come on. That’s a little Aspy humor. I don’t rock,” he said then paused. “But I do flap my arms when I get excited.” Then Eric winked. Just then, a blue van pulled up out front, and the driver blew his horn.
“Oh, there’s my shuttle. My cell phone number is on the list if you need anything. I’ll call once a month to see that everything’s OK. Also, I didn’t forward my phone, so if it rings, go ahead and answer it and give anyone my cell number. You can use the phone also, and the number is on the list,” Eric said as he opened the door and walked to the shuttle with two of his suitcases.
Michael grabbed the third bag and followed him out.
“Do you think you forgot something?” Michael asked as Eric opened the door to the van.
Eric furrowed his brow and replied, “What?”
“The keys,” Michael said holding out his hand.
Eric reached into his pocket and handed Michael a key chain with three keys. He pointed out the one for the door, the deadbolt and the one for the steel-reinforced screen door. “Make sure you lock all three. This may be Mount Pleasant, but it is neither a mount, nor pleasant … discuss,” Eric said as he closed the door to the van and they drove off.
Michael waved goodbye and passed a neighbor, who gave him a double-take as he walked back to the apartment.
“Eric, did you dye your hair?” the neighbor asked.
“No. Don’t you think I would have dyed all the gray out?” Michael answered, not letting her know that he was not her neighbor.
He touched the Mezuzah on the front door frame and kissed his hand before entering the apartment.
Here he was, back in D.C. after almost twenty-five years. Michael had not been here since his maternal grandmother died, and he was actually looking forward to it. About an hour after Eric left, Michael’s boxes arrived. What timing. Within two hours, he had everything unpacked and was settled in. Now, who is obsessive? He thought.
Michael called Sharon to tell her he arrived safely and would see her Monday when she returned from her mountain retreat in West Virginia. Then, he ordered some dinner from the Chinese take-out menu he found on the refrigerator and settled in for the night.
The next day was Saturday, and he spent most of the day walking around the neighborhood and running errands, grocery shopping and the like.
In the evening, Michael was restle
ss, so he went online to see what the nightlife in Washington had to offer. It had been years since he had been out to a bar, but he lacked for anything else to do, so he printed out a list of bars and dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt and sneakers. He walked to 16th Street and hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to the D.C. Falcon on New York Avenue. Within twenty minutes, the cab pulled up to a nondescript building with a door that had written on it, “D.C. Falcon.” He paid the fare and exited the cab.
The neighborhood looked a little dicey, and Michael was glad he was wearing sneakers in case he needed to make a fast getaway from a mugger. He walked quickly to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked. Michael pulled the list of bars from his wallet and checked the hours of operation. The D.C. Falcon was supposed to be open from 6:00 pm to 2:00 am, and Michael looked at his watch and saw it was a little after 10:00 pm. He looked around the door and saw a button that he figured was a bell, so he pushed it. Within a few seconds, the door opened, and a large bearded man, wearing a harness, leather chaps and a leather jock strap opened the door and eyed Michael up and down.
“Yes?” the bouncer asked.
“Are you open?” Michael asked as he looked inside and saw there was a sizable crowd in the darkened bar, most of whom were dressed in black or leather garb.
“Yes, there’s a $10 cover to get in,” the bouncer responded.
Michael reached for his wallet and stepped inside. He pulled a $10 bill from his wallet to hand to the bouncer, but the man shook his head no to Michael and said, “I can’t let you in. We have a dress code.”
Michael gave the bouncer a puzzled look and asked, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“You’re wearing sneakers,” the bouncer said pointing to Michael’s shoes.
Michael looked at his shoes and didn’t think they looked bad as they were gray with blue lettering and practically brand new.
“So?” Michael asked.
“The rules are black leather shoes or boots, preferably boots and absolutely no sneakers,” the bouncer said as he opened the door, signaling for Michael to leave.